The Longest Minute

Do you ever feel like some minutes last longer than others? That time works against you: speeding up the moments that feel good and stretching out the ones that bring pain? In an effort to ensure that all things in the world are categorized into nice, neat buckets of good vs. bad, I've compiled two lists: the longest minutes and the shortest minutes. I'm fairly convinced that time is truly accelerating or slowing without our knowing.

List #1 The Longest Minutes:
The 2:30 minutes of chair-pose in Boot Camp (and most other timed exercise)
Waiting for sushi to arrive
Waiting for the phone to ring for someone who says they're going to call at a certain time
Any mode of public transportation
Waiting for good vs. bad news
Waiting. Period.
The dentist (or any medical procedure)

List #2 The Shortest Minutes:
Minutes of a massage
Talking on the phone when you're calling a loved one from a foreign country on a phone card
Eating dessert
Descending a hill on a bike, snowboard, etc.
The time in-between when your alarm goes off and the snooze
Working against a deadline
Running for the bus (or any other public transportation that you're late for)
Anytime you're late for anything
When you can't sleep & you keep looking at the clock

Time may offer a systematic method for measuring the moments of our lives, but our minds can and do play tricks, letting us weight our experiences. A time machine would be great, but how about a machine that can stretch out the pleasure and decrease the pain? Please submit business proposals.

Rooftop Tornado

This is the story of a pie, a roof, and a very windy city.

Let's start by closing our eyes and pretending that the weather in San Francisco is pleasant. Pleasant enough to throw a rooftop party in August. Those smug Mission-ites seem to think (among other things) that they live in a lollypop land of fantasy weather with unicorns flying through the white poofy clouds, sun beams flowing through gently rustling curtains and soft breezes caressing your face.

I have been to the Mission a total of 3 times so far this summer. Once to look at real estate. Once to hang out in Dolores Park (Dolores Park pre-burning man. Bad idea. Topic of another blog entry.) And once again to attend this rooftop party. All visits: cold, windy, un-predicatable. Just like the rest of the city. But with a higher volume and mix of annoying people.

Not long after I woke up on Saturday morning, I realized that I was supposed to bring some sort of "dish" to this party. I had a couple of hours. The coffee was brewing. I decided to bake. One thing led to another and the next thing I knew, I was rolling out a pie crust and putting together the pieces of a somewhat elaborate mocha-brownie-pudding-pie. Despite my rushed state, the pie ended up looking pretty damn good and when I finally arrived at the party, I set it onto the table with pride.

It couldn't have been more than 15 minutes that passed, I was attempting to mingle, eat and keep the hair out of my face all at the same time. The wind was kicking up and it was one of those winds where people actually were compelled to acknowledge it's presence, "wow, it's windy." Yes, you are very observant. The occasional napkin or paper plate was seen circulating through the air, but my pie in it's tin pie-plate seemed safe enough. Or so I thought.

Until the rooftop tornado hit. It was a gust that nearly took down a couple of palm trees. It came out of nowhere, grabbed my pie, and threw it to the ground. Face down. A look of horror came over my friend Tim's face, "Pam, your pie!" I wanted to cry, but I quickly replaced the feeling of grief with an intense and bitter hatred towards the wind, and maybe even San Francisco as a whole (just for a few minutes). Tim helped me salvage some of the pie; it wasn't pretty, but people actually still ate it. That was a couple hours later, after everyone was drunk.

I believe that I am permanently scarred from this episode. While the wind has never made it to my list of favorite things, I am now convinced by its capacity to ruin otherwise delightful activities. It wrecks bike rides, destroys picnics, makes reading in the park virtually impossible, and so on. It used to be a general animosity, but now it's personal. Nobody throws my pie on the ground and gets away with it.

A Hero's Burden

A couple of weeks ago, I saw Dean Karnazes speak about his recent accomplishment: 50 marathons in 50 days. The guy is certifiable, but he's a great public speaker and I left the event inspired by his message: just get off the couch and do something.

If you look at Dean's scroll of accomplishments, you can topically surmise that he's crazy. And he might be. But that's none of my business. The thing I admire most about him is that he follows his heart, and that, I find the ultimate in inspiration. "I think Western culture has things backwards. We equate comfort with happiness, and now we're so comfortable we're miserable. There's no struggle in our life, no sense of adventure. I've found that I'm never more alive than when I'm pushing and I'm in pain and I'm struggling for a high achievement. In that struggle, I think there's a magic." (Outside magazine, January 2007). And he's so right. What we see in the media of Dean is all the romance, even the pain he endures is romanticized. But the truth is, pain is pain, even when you have a smile on your face for the cameras.

Which is why my heart fell a little when, as I was telling a friend that I saw Dean speak, he asked, "I heard Dean Karnazes is a dork." Now, first of all. It goes without saying that most triathletes (my friend included), cyclists and runners are dorks; Type-A personalities to a fault. That's just the nature of the beast. But isn't it amazing that in a world where Paris Hilton uses her DUI to capture her fans hearts and is unconditionally forgiven upon release from prison, we are so overly critical of people who actually w-o-r-k to make positive change in the world?

Another friend whom I ran into at the show commented that he thought it was a joke that Dean was the one getting so much media attention when he clearly wasn't the best ultra-marathoner.

What disturbed me most about these comments was that they had unknowingly put Dean into this category of perfection. The guy's accomplished some inhumane feats and he's using his fame to send a positive and salubrious message to the masses. But all you can say is that you think he's a dork and he's clearly not the 'best'. Thanks for showing up, folks. You are clearly experiencing some compensatory behavior.

Lance Armstrong has been accused repeatedly of being a jackass. Barry Bonds will always stand in the shadow of doubt. Everybody loves scandal, but I think what people really love is the feeling of superiority they get when they take someone down a notch. Ok, fine. But do you have to miss the message in the process?

Gem in the Jungle

I was recently introduced to a little gem in my urban jungle: the Polo Fields in Golden Gate Park. The field has an inner paved track, which is good for cycling and an outer track, which is good for running. As a bonus, there's a 70's style circuit training that extends the perimeter of the track and let me tell you...it doesn't feel like much of a workout while you're doing it. But I could barely walk the next day. Which meant I had to go back for more.

On top of being a great space for getting the limbs moving, it's an incredibly serene and peaceful environment. The type of adrenaline you just don't find at the gym. The majestic oaks let the fog pass through their twisted trunks while the old eucalyptus dose the air with their minty aroma and protect from the wind. The sky is the ubiquitous summer grey and there's so much open area to stretch out and have a few moments of s-p-a-c-e in this otherwise crowded city.